The light of life has faded from thy cause, High priest of heaven and hell and purgatory: Thy lips are loud with strains of oldworld story, But the red prey was rent out of thy paws Long since: and they that dying brake down thy laws Have with the fires of death-enkindled glory Put out the flame that faltered on thy hoary High altars, waning with the world's applause. This Italy was Dante's: Bruno died Here: Campanella, too sublime for pride, Endured thy God's worst here, and hence went home. And what art thou, that time's full tide should shrink For thy sake downward? What art thou, to think Thy God shall give thee back for birthright Rome? _January 1882._ THE CHANNEL TUNNEL Not for less love, all glorious France, to thee, "Sweet enemy" called in days long since at end, Now found and hailed of England sweeter friend, Bright sister of our freedom now, being free; Not for less love or faith in friendship we Whose love burnt ever toward thee reprehend The vile vain greed whose pursy dreams portend Between our shores suppression of the sea. Not by dull toil of blind mechanic art Shall these be linked for no man's force to part Nor length of years and changes to divide, But union only of trust and loving heart And perfect faith in freedom strong to abide And spirit at one with spirit on either side. _April 3, 1882._ SIR WILLIAM GOMM I At threescore years and five aroused anew To rule in India, forth a soldier went On whose bright-fronted youth fierce war had spent Its iron stress of storm, till glory grew Full as the red sun waned on Waterloo. Landing, he met the word from England sent Which bade him yield up rule: and he, content, Resigned it, as a mightier warrior's due; And wrote as one rejoicing to record That "from the first" his royal heart was lord Of its own pride or pain; that thought was none Therein save this, that in her perilous strait England, whose womb brings forth her sons so great, Should choose to serve her first her mightiest son. II Glory beyond all flight of warlike fame Go with the warrior's memory who preferred To praise of men whereby men's hearts are stirred, And acclamation of his own proud name With blare of trumpet-blasts and sound and flame Of pageant honour, and the titular word That only wins men worship of the herd, His country's sovereign good; who overcame Pride, wrath, and hope of all high chance on earth, For this land's love that gave his great heart birth. O nursling of the sea-winds and the sea, Immortal England, goddess ocean-born, What shall thy children fear, what strengths not scorn, While children of such mould are born to thee? SONNETS ON ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS (1590-1650) I CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE